


Game Over

by HalcyonStars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Deans thigh holster, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Feels very endverse in atmosphere, Grumpy Dean, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Plot Twists, The summary sounds pretty grim but I swear it's not, Thigh Holsters, but not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalcyonStars/pseuds/HalcyonStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean ducked behind the old abandoned shed, resting his back against the red rusted metal and slowly sinking to the ground. </p>
<p>It wouldn’t be long before he was completely surrounded by Croats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game Over

Dean ducked behind the old abandoned shed, resting his back against the red rusted metal before bending his knees, slowly sinking to the ground in a sickening grind and scrape of metal against metal – like sharp, pointed fingernails down a chalkboard.

He breathed heavily, panting and gasping for breath through the burning of his lungs. The ground was sodden and miserable, dips and ditches that just screamed rolled ankle. Dean pushed his heel into the ground and flinched. Yep, rolled ankle.

His boots were torn at the seams, and the mud that squelched beneath his feet with every step was crawling through the crevices, through the broken soles and dirtying his socks.

He grabbed the gun from his thigh-holster, and its weight alone told him all he needed to know. He was out of ammo.

He threw his head back and into the shed, the sound ricocheting through the air as the metal sheets – corrugated and corroded with arbitrarily dispersed burnt orange and silver patches – of the poorly constructed shed rattled in its frame.

 Dean could hear the quiet creeping of lurkers slinking around the corner, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before they saw him. It wouldn’t be long before Dean was completely surrounded by Croats.

It was then, in his moment of total hopelessness, when the adrenaline drew thin and Dean no longer forced himself to focus on every tiny detail around him, that he felt it.

To the right side of his stomach, just below his ribs, was a pain – sharp and stinging and yet still deep and aching. Dean pressed his hand over the area, drawing in a shaky breath through clenched teeth when the pain flared. Dean drew his hand away, grunting when he saw his fingers were now wet and red.

“Dammit,” he hissed. “It’s over for me,” Dean whispered, and he felt every fibre of faith leave him.

“Too right you are.”

Dean looked up, following the gravelly voice to stare at icy blue eyes and right down the barrel of a gun.

“You gonna shoot me, Cas?”

Castiel shrugged, black leather jacket tugging at his shoulders as he did so. He kept his gun trained on Dean, jaw set and determined. They both knew how this would play out.

“Game Over, Dean.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as Castiel pulled the trigger four times, four shots hitting Dean in the chest. Dean gasped with each shot, each a tiny explosion of pain.  

He heard Castiel laugh low from his belly as he stalked up to Dean, crouching in front of the wounded man and examining his work. Castiel jabbed his fingers into Dean’s chest, two jabs to each spot he shot Dean. Dean yelled in pain.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Get over it, Dean.”

“Get over it? You shot me!”

Cas huffed. “It’s only paintball, Dean.”

Dean looked down at his old plaid shirt, tattered and torn and with five splashes of colour – red paint near his hip; two blue patches, one yellow and one pink splotch, all on his chest.

“Yeah. Its paintball, so you should know shooting me once is enough!” Dean grumbled.

“I’m just being thorough,” Cas smiled. “And how is it you seem to be out of ammo and I still have a spare gun tucked into the back of my jeans? Tell me, Winchester, who’s the one with poor aim now?”

“Shut up, Cas.”

“You’re just grumpy because your feet are wet.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“You shouldn’t have worn broken boots.”

“Mom wouldn’t let me get paint on my good ones,” Dean said grumpily, which only happened to spur on Castiel more.

Cas chuckled, leaning forward and kissing his boyfriend chastely on the lips, their thick and foggy goggles knocking together. “You can try again next time, Dean.”

Dean made a noise, somewhere between a pleasant hum and a disgruntled protest. “When did you start playing on the Croats team instead of the Hunters anyway?”

“When the Hunters kept getting their asses kicked by the Croats.”

“Traitor,” Dean griped, but still took Castiel’s hand when he offered it, pulling him up so that they stood face to face. Castiel admired Dean none to subtly, from his threadbare boots to the pale caesious jeans hugging his bowed legs and the thigh-holster clasping on just as tightly. Cas always had a thing for that thigh-holster, as Dean had found out on one of their more adventurous bedroom escapades, when Cas had put the thigh-holster and his well-established imagination to good use. _Very good use,_ if you asked Dean.

Dean however wasn’t too appreciate of Castiel’s getup at that moment. He was wearing tight, dark denim jeans which he moved far too gracefully in to be anything but illegal. His black military boots were tied with thick black cords and were double-knotted, so as to provide maximal support and minimal hindrance.

He looked – for lack of better words – frickin hot, and Dean’s thoughts were far from pure at that moment. Castiel was however, far too devoid of paint to keep Dean from feeling thoroughly pissed off. Here Dean was, looking like a funhouse reject and Sam’s worst nightmare, and Castiel was impossibly clean, with not a single drop of paint or smudge of dirt on him.

He was incredibly attractive, and unconditionally, irrevocably frustrating.

Dean wouldn’t stand for it.

He smiled and kissed Castiel back sweetly, and Cas pulled away with suspicious eyes. If there was one thing Dean could be, it was petty, _especially_ when it came to losing, and Cas wasn’t falling for it.

Unfortunately for Castiel, Dean could be petty, but he could also be impossibly quick.

Dean pulled Castiel close to his chest, nary an inch away as he reached beneath the other man’s black leather jacket and into his jean belt. There, sat a holster, and inside it was paintball gun, chock full of grade-A ammo.

In mere seconds Dean had yanked his hand back and trained the gun on Castiel, only to find the other man mirroring his position.

They were quite the sight, two fully grown men, paintball guns pointing at one another with menacing grins.

“Don’t even think about it,” Castiel warned, voice low and ominous and lips twitching just enough to challenge Dean, as if saying “bring it on” on their own accord.

Dean’s finger tightened on the trigger as he smirked back.

Castiel was wrong, it wasn’t “game over.”

The game was just beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m adding extra tags in the end notes, just in case people are using the ‘any field’ search engine to browse tags. So I’ll add: paintball, fun, games. I didn’t want to spoil it in the main tags, hence tagging 'plot twist' :) Hope you enjoyed, my lovely chickadees


End file.
